Thrall
by pizzababe
Summary: "Surely you have a name, what did your mother call you?" His voice was incredulous. "She called me...Tilde," she admitted, voice hushed as if it were a secret. "Only when we were alone," Tilde tacked on. "Then I shall call you Tilde, even a slave deserves a name." Rollo/OFC slow burn, please r&r, not for children! AU
1. Prologue

Prologue

The stillness of the night was foreboding, as if the world had come to a halt in the dark hours of predawn. It was so silent that the ringing in her ears seemed like a roar, a sense of uneasiness residing deep within her bones. It was a feeling as old as she was, Tilde had learnt to trust her gut and everything in her gut was screaming for her to get out before it was too late.

In a flurry of tangled limbs and the one thin blanket she possessed, the slave climbed from her nest of straw and ran barefoot into the chilly spring night. She wore only the thin dress of cotton, a symbol of her status within the clan. A thick leather collar wrapped around her neck, a small iron ring resting against the hollow of her throat meant to be tied to a post like some kind of animal.

Tilde crept through the sleeping village, suddenly being yanked to the side by a fist in her hair. Her heart leapt into her throat as she was pulled back into a broad chest, a beard tickling the top of her head. The strong scent of whiskey revealed that it was one of the village regulars, a cruel man by the name of Mord. He liked to drink and fuck, he was cruel in both endeavors and cared little if he hurt anyone in the process.

"What's this? The little slave woman off for a midnight walk?" His voice sang in her ear, making her cringe. Tilde struggled against his grasp fruitlessly, stopping when the cool metal of a blade was pressed against her throat.

"They'll whip you if they catch you out again, girl," he spat, digging the knife in slightly. It wasn't enough to kill her but enough to draw blood. Tilde grimaced, more in fear of another whipping than in pain.

"I had to get out…it was too quiet," Tilde's voice was little more than a whisper, frantic blue eyes scanning the tree line in anticipation. Something was coming.

"My heart breaks for you, _slave_ ," he enunciated sarcastically. The knife twisted against her throat harder and she could feel the bulge in his pants that formed at her whimper.

With a deep breath for courage, Tilde reached back and slammed her elbow into Mord's face, causing the man to lose his grip on her with a pained cry. Tilde fled, bare feet scrambling in the cold mud that oozed between her toes.

"Come back here you little bitch!" Mord's cries did nothing to slow her, nor did the thundering footsteps of him chasing her which slowly faded back into silence as she reached the outskirts of town and lost Mord.

Tilde slid down a small bank, splashing through a stream in the dark in her hurry to get out, to _get away_ from whatever the feeling of foreboding was emanating from. Tilde slowed as she spotted figures in the distance, illuminated faintly by the rising of the sun.

Striding towards her from the horizon was a hoard of people, armed with multicolored shields and baring weapons of all kinds; bows, daggers, axes, swords, anything that could be used to kill. These were the dreaded Northmen that Fortriu had feared. There had been accounts from England, from France and beyond.

Tilde sank to her knees in the grass, knowing there was no way out of this. She would die today and rise to Valhalla, for even if she followed the same beliefs as these Northmen, she was not one of them.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Seconds bled into minutes and what felt like hours couldn't have been more than five before the leather boots paused in her line of sight. Tilde remained where she was, head bowed as she murmured a prayer from her homeland, asking Odin to give her courage as she stared down at the boots.

A hand gripped her blonde hair, yanking the soft locks as he tilted her head back. Biting back a hiss, Tilde glared up at the red headed man. He smiled down at her with rotted teeth, his hair was a dirty red that was cropped short and his beard was scraggly. The man wore plain clothing, not so worn as her own but the clothing of a commoner. He sneered down at her, crouching to be at eye level.

"What have we here? A bit of a welcoming party?" His voice was gravelly as he leered at her, ignoring the fire in her eyes. "She's a pretty one. A slave looks like, we could make good use of her," he tacked on, glancing at a man behind him, obviously the leader.

Tilde spared the leader a small glance, a man whose head was shaved on all sides while the top remained and was pulled back with leather ties in a long braid down his back. He wore finer clothing, obviously the Jarl of the clan. He watched Tilde emotionlessly, obviously uncaring as to what happened to her.

Tilde was brought back to the man gripping her hair when his hand found the front of her dress. In a second, Tilde had snapped her head downwards and snatched the man's dirty hand in mouth, biting into it savagely and tearing free a chunk.

"Touch me once more and I'll take more than that," Tilde spat in their tongue, her native tongue, as the man screeched with pain.

"You bitch," the man made to strike her, eyeing her smirk with rage. The leader didn't stop him as the hand fell, her head turning with a _crack._

Tilde pushed upwards, fist catching the man unawares as she climbed onto him and began to punch him left and right alternatively. Once he was a bloody pulp the slave girl stood, spitting down on him before turning to face the hoard.

"I like this one, she has fire in her," a man to the right of the leader chuckled, kohl lining his eyes and streaked down his cheeks. He was balding and scrawny but seemed to move like a feral creature.

"You speak our language," it was a statement, not a command, as the Jarl spoke. Tilde nodded, watching him warily.

The leader nodded, moving towards her in self assured steps. He stopped, surprised as Tilde grabbed the axe off the fallen man. Silence fell, eyes flicking between the two.

"You'll not win this fight girl," she could almost mistake the leader's words for being kind.

"I won't go back to it again," Tilde told him, voice straining with pain towards the end. "I was free, I'd rather die that way than go back to being a slave."

The leader straightened, eyeing her with an unnamable emotion. Awe perhaps or maybe just shock.

"I claim her."

All turned their heads, a monstrously large man appearing from the crowd. He had long brown hair, as long as the Jarl's though it was only pulled back in the front rather than braided. His beard was short, covering most of his jaw and upper lip. The man was much larger than Tilde, with a muscular build and scars lining his exposed skin. He too was dressed well, though not as well as the Jarl.

"You want her?" Tilde glanced at the leader, noting the shock on the man's face.

"Floki is right. She has fire in her soul," the stranger stared at her with appreciation, whispers taking over the clan.

"Good luck getting the axe from her, brother," the leader chuckled, turning away with the clan following shortly after.

Tilde turned back, hefting the axe in hand as the man approached her. He drew an axe from his belt, Tilde shifting in preparation only to blink in surprise as he dropped it. The man moved closer, repeating the process until he was unarmed of all weapons. When he halted he stood only a foot or so away from Tilde.

"You wouldn't fight a man who's weaponless, would you?" His words were barely out of his mouth when she struck, swinging the axe savagely towards him with a grunt. He seemed shocked that she had done so but easily caught the axe by its staff.

He pulled the axe from her hand, shoving her with his shoulder so that she fell onto her rear in the grass. Tilde moved to grab the dagger he had dropped, stopped by a boot against her hand. Grunting in pain, the slave removed her hand from beneath his boot and shifted away. The man tossed her axe aside, thumping down next to her.

"Why did you claim me?" Tilde rubbed the sore spot on her hand, glaring at him beneath blonde hair.

"You are too young to die yet, too interesting," the man commented, confusing her.

"What do you want from me?" The man turned to look at her, reading the fear easily in her green eyes.

"I'll not harm you. I'll not ask anything of you that you aren't willing to give. I'm not that kind of man," he told her quietly, sincerity in his voice. Tilde stared at him in surprise, still unsure of what he wanted.

The man reached out, her muscles tensing as he touched her neck but she relaxed when his fingers brushed the clasp of her collar, undoing it with deft fingers and tossing it aside. The skin beneath was raw and chapped, sores lining her red neck in a grotesque necklace.

The man grimaced, reaching out as if to touch one of the bloodier wounds when she backed away. His hand dropped, the stranger looking away as if it were nothing to remove her collar. In truth it was everything. To remove her collar meant she belonged not to his clan but to him, as a personal slave. She was his and no one else's.

"I am Rollo, what is your name?" Tilde glanced away this time, fiddling with her hands nervously.

"I have no name. I am only a slave."

"Surely you have a name, what did your mother call you?" His voice was incredulous. "She called me…Tilde," her voice was hushed as if it were a secret. "But only when we were alone," Tilde tacked on.

"Then I shall call you Tilde, even a slave deserves a name."


End file.
